"I don't see how you can think you weren't at risk."
"Genevieve poked him with her umbrella. Actually, I think she hurt him. He had tears in his eyes."
"Did he indeed? That makes quite a picture.” Her sister's fiance stopped frowning and burst into laughter.
Kristin laughed too, happy at the thought that she was doing a credible job of entertaining him until Minna returned. That thought reminded her that her sister was now very late. Kristin glanced anxiously at the large clock on her father's desk. It was only six-forty-five. When Minna went to visit her friend Maude Hohenstein, she sometimes stayed out until ten and got a scolding, although not a very severe one. Nothing like the scoldings Kristin got for even the slightest infraction of the rules. “Why do they get so much angrier with me?” she asked wonderingly.
"Who is it that gets so much angrier with you? Is it your mother and father?” he asked kindly. “Or your brothers?"
It was all of them, she thought. Of course, she didn't say that. “Well, it's only natural,” she stammered. “I'm always doing things they don't approve of. Even my excursions with Genevieve. Mama doesn't think one should mix with the lower classes. And she was very angry when Reverend Mother Luitgard Huber actually came to the house and gave her a lecture on Christian charity."
"I'm sure,” said Mr. Cameron.
"So of course, my parents like Minna better. She never associates with the lower classes, even in a charitable way. And Minna is older and an engaged woman."
"Yes,” murmured Mr. Cameron, not looking particularly delighted at the reference to his engagement.
Although Minna liked to pretend that Mr. Cameron was madly in love with her, Kristin sometimes doubted that he even liked Minna—or any of the Traubes. “What a shame,” she mused sadly, “that people of our class can't marry someone they actually have affection for and might be happy with. You and Minna will probably be as miserable together as most married people."
The imperturbable Mr. Cameron looked quite astonished.
"Oh, I'm sorry!” exclaimed Kristin. “Maybe you do like her. She's always saying that you're in love with her.” That didn't seem to help either, so Kristin stammered on, “It's just that when I was a little girl, I used to think that I'd marry a handsome prince. Isn't that silly?” She wished she hadn't said that, not when Mr. Cameron had figured as the handsome prince of her daydreams lately.
The expression on his face was quite indescribable, and Kristin took a quick gulp of her brandy with the fuzzy conviction that the conversation had gone awry. “It's just,” she tried again, “that I don't know any married people who really seem to like each other. Do you?” She looked at him hopefully, wishing he'd rescue her from this unfortunate conversational topic. He did.
"Why don't you tell me what happened after Miss Boyer poked the man at the railroad station with the umbrella?"
"He went away,” said Kristin, gratefully, “sort of hunched over. In fact, I think I heard him groan."
"She does sound formidable."
"Yes. I've seen her summon the police without any hesitation, although the gentlemen always claim that they weren't doing anything reprehensible, and the policemen seldom arrest them. But in the meantime, we whisk the young woman away."
When Kristin smiled across the hearth at him, she found that Mr. Cameron was studying her intently, and her heart took a little tumble. She'd been talking too much.
Kristin was just opening her mouth to apologize when he said, “You are an amazing girl. Most women I know wouldn't go a step out of their way to help another woman if there was a man involved, even a worthless one.” He raised his brandy snifter. “Here's to you, young Miss Traube. You have my admiration and respect for courage and for feminine solidarity with your sex."
Confused, Kristin wasn't sure whether she was supposed to drink too. No one had ever toasted her before.
"Here. Let me give you a bit more."
"Oh, no, I really don't think—” But Mr. Cameron had already risen to pour another modest portion into her snifter, which he then, as he had done before, put into her hand. Kristin realized at that moment that she was feeling peculiar, but she wasn't sure whether that slight breathlessness and whirling in the head were due to the brandy or to the warm, firm clasp of his fingers on hers.
She glanced up at the clock. Only seven-thirty. For the first time she realized that Mr. Cameron, although he had always struck her as a charming man, didn't really talk much. Was that because the Traubes did so much of it or because he was naturally reticent? Kristin had always thought of herself as a quiet person, but she'd been talking her head off. It seemed to her that the least he could do was initiate some topic himself.
However, he didn't, and the silence was becoming embarrassing when her attention was caught by the fineness of his nose, which was long, but not too long. Of course, one wouldn't think a man handsome who had a tiny nose, or an immense one, for that matter. Mr. Cameron's nose was just the right size and a pleasing cross between aristocratic and strongly masculine. Was it more masculine than aristocratic? she wondered and then noticed that Mr. Cameron was still staring at her, waiting for her to say something.
"Are you interested in noses?” she blurted out and then realized that noses were perhaps not the most socially acceptable topic.
"Noses?” Mr. Cameron's eyebrows, nicely shaped, thick and dark, rose slightly. “I am not sure I have really given noses much thought."
Kristin was quite sure there was a twinkle in his eye. Nice eyes too. They were blue, much the same color as hers, but his had lovely dark brown lashes, whereas her lashes were as pale as her hair.
"Are you interested in noses, Miss Traube?"
Well, she'd introduced the topic; she had to say something. “It's just that while I was at the railroad station—” Oh dear, the railroad station again.
"Do I take it that you rescued some young lady with a memorable nose?” prompted Mr. Cameron. He looked as if he might smile again, which, when she thought about it and except for tonight, was unusual. But then, there wasn't a lot to smile about in the Traube household, her family tending toward the solemn and quarrelsome rather than the lighthearted or even amiable.
His hair was beautiful, thought Kristin. Very thick and shining with good health, parted on the side, which she liked so much better than the middle parting affected by men older and less fashionable. He had an interesting hairline, not straight or too low on the brow, but not a widow's peak either. She didn't care for his mustache. It was redder than the rich, dark red-brown of his hair. Also a bit dandified for her taste. What had he asked her? “Well, no, actually it was the bounder who had the nose,” said Kristin.
"Indeed. The bounder.” Mr. Cameron smiled broadly, and Kristin's heart speeded up at an alarming rate, for he had the most charming smile. How could Minna treat him the way she did and miss seeing that smile? Maybe they smiled at each other when they were alone. Probably if Minna had come home to keep their appointment, they would be smiling at each other this very minute. “I hardly know how to describe it to you,” said Kristin, picking up again the subject of the nose at the railroad station since she could think of no other. “Shall I sketch it?"
"That would be most interesting,” said Mr. Cameron. “I am always amazed at the talents of young ladies. My sister dabbles in water colors and draws from outline cards."
Kristin resented the condescending nature of his last remark. His sister might be a dabbler, but Kristin was not. She rose, balanced herself carefully against the table beside her chair, then launched out toward her father's desk for a piece of paper and ink, very glad to fall into another chair when she reached the desk. Also very glad to be so far away from the disturbing proximity of Mr. Cameron. Industriously she sketched the nose, threw away her first drawing and tried several more times, losing herself in the effort to reproduce it perfectly while adding that sinister quality adduced from the man's actions.
"Why are you discarding your drawings?” asked Mr. Came
ron, who had come to look over her shoulder. “They are all excellent."
"I have a talent,” she agreed. “Sister Ermentrude always said so, and Mrs. Potter Palmer once commissioned me to do a portrait for her."
"She did?"
"That's it!” exclaimed Kristin and passed her last drawing to him. “That's the nose.” Then, remembering his surprise about Mrs. Palmer, she added, “Yes, but my parents wouldn't let me do it. They thought it unladylike to be paid for artistic efforts.” The sharp recollection of her disappointment cut through a haze of brandy-induced cheerfulness that had enveloped Kristin. “I wanted to be a professional artist, you see, but they said I'd never make a good marriage if I did. They wouldn't even let me study in Europe. I'm not sure whether that was because Papa hates to remember how poor and insignificant his family was in Germany or because he thought I'd be drawing naked men and living a scandalous life."
Giggling, she glanced up at Mr. Cameron and saw that he was giving her an odd look. “Well, that was just silly on Papa's part,” she said hastily. “I've never seen a naked man and never expect to. But I would have been a fine artist.” She bit her lip, feeling extremely sorry for herself.
Mr. Cameron laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “Families are the devil, aren't they? Mine is always complaining that I put them into risky investments. They never stop to think that my ventures bring in a lot more money than anything my brothers do."
"And I'm sure your ventures are much more exciting,” she said wistfully. “I wish there were something exciting in my life. Being a lady can be awfully dull."
"I hope you didn't give up painting entirely,” he responded. “Surely it's a source of satisfaction."
"Only a private one. I no longer show my work. Papa doesn't approve of art shows either. Women are expected to give up anything that would bring them public attention or make them important to anyone but their families."
Mr. Cameron looked taken aback, then said quickly, “Those delightful drawings in the family albums—I imagine they are yours.” He helped her to her feet, although Kristin didn't want to get up. She certainly didn't want to sit on Papa's sofa with Mr. Cameron, but he seemed quite determined that she should. “Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me the meaning of all these mementos and who the people are in the pictures and what the occasions were."
Thank goodness, thought Kristin. There were enough family albums to last through two evenings of enforced companionship with Mr. Cameron. Now, why did I think enforced? she wondered as she accepted another snifter of brandy. She was enjoying herself—mostly. Restored to cheerfulness, Kristin flipped open the album Mr. Cameron handed her and giggled. “This was a picture I drew during a summer vacation, the summer the skunk got Ludovich."
"Good for the skunk,” said Mr. Cameron, examining a sketch that featured a frisky skunk and a horrified Ludovich. Kristin glanced at him in surprise, then burst out laughing. Both of them did.
It was quarter to nine, and Mr. Cameron's arm lay companionably on the back of the sofa behind her. She was pleasantly aware of the warmth of his body as she closed the album. Kristin had had so many outrageous stories to tell him about the family that they had only finished one volume. She slid it off her lap with a grand sweep of the arm. “Now what would you like to see?” she asked. “The poor German immigrants, making their way from prejudice and oppression in the old country to a grand new life in the New World? Or the when-the-worthwhile-older-children-were-babies album?"
She tipped her head and smiled at Jack. Mr. Cameron had suggested that she call him Jack and that he call her Kristin. “Or do you prefer ‘little princess'?” he had asked, and she had replied merrily, “Not unless you want me to poke you with Genevieve's umbrella.” She had told him how, as a child, when her brothers were planning to be wealthy sausage makers and her sister was planning to be a rich wife, she had announced that she wanted to be a princess when she grew up. She was still twitted about it and not very kindly either, although she had been only five when she made that unfortunate remark.
Her offer to discipline Mr. Cameron with Genevieve's umbrella set them to laughing again. “Well, which album shall it be?” Kristin had a little trouble pronouncing which. The ending didn't seem to come out quite right.
"It's truly amazing,” said Mr. Cameron, “that the same parents could produce one daughter who is basically plain and unpleasant and another who's beautiful and charming."
Overwhelmed with confusion, Kristin's laughter died. She didn't think that he meant she was plain and unpleasant, but if he wasn't referring to her, then he had to be talking about Minna. How could that be when Minna insisted that Mr. Cameron was madly in love with her? Minna never said that she was madly in love with him, although she obviously considered him a great matrimonial prize and no more than her due. How sad! Mr. Cameron wanted Minna's rich dowry, and Minna wanted his impressive social position.
"Good heavens, don't stop smiling at me,” said Mr. Cameron. “I'm most heartily sorry if I offended you.” His arm came down on her shoulder and tightened just as she looked up. “You have the most fetching mouth,” he observed. “Not tight-lipped like the others. Are you a changeling?"
"Maybe we should stop drinking Papa's brandy,” she stammered.
"Perhaps you're right,” he agreed.
"Well,” said Kristin, tilting her head, “shall we look at another album?” Any change in the position of her head, she discovered, was a great mistake, for the room swooped around her like an exultant bird in flight, and she opened her eyes wide in an attempt to overcome the effect.
"Blue,” said Jack. “Sapphire blue."
Kristin would have looked around and made a comment on the vase he was undoubtedly referring to, but she was afraid to move her head again.
"With lashes like corn silk."
Lashes? There was a vase with cattails. Could that be what—her confused thoughts were aborted because, with one long finger, John Powell Cameron tipped her face up and placed his mouth carefully, warmly on hers.
Kristin had never been kissed before, not by a male who wasn't a relative and certainly not on the lips. As her head righted itself from the effect of the kiss, she considered the sensation with astonished pleasure. He hadn't kissed her straight on, but then that would have been impossible, as their noses would have collided. Kristin's was small and delicate. She knew that from studying it in the mirror when no one was around to scold her for vanity. And Mr. Cameron's—no Jack's—was much larger, but delightfully well formed. She admired it from a distance of two inches just before his mouth covered hers again and she closed her eyes, savoring the firm pressure of that mouth as her head went off into another whirling flight. She felt a bit disappointed when he took his lips away.
"Did you like that?” he asked, his mouth still so close that she could feel the soft touch of his breath and smell the mellow fragrance of brandy.
"Yes,” she said, but didn't feel able at the moment to enlarge on the pleasure his kiss had given her.
"So did I.” He sounded a bit surprised and kissed her again. To be sure he really had liked it, she supposed. The last kiss was different. He had caught her in the process of closing her mouth, but not quite, and his lips were parted as well, so that the kiss was moister and much more—well, she hardly knew what. Certainly more persistent. Kristin was surprised to find her heart beating very rapidly and a hot flush stealing over her.
Mr. Cameron, whose chest was pressed against hers, evidently noticed the acceleration in her heartbeat, for he murmured, “You're not going to faint, are you?” and drew away enough so that he could lay his fingers on her breastbone where her heart now flung itself like a wild bird seeking escape from the fragile bars of its cage.
She no longer felt able to converse, but she did want the exhilaration of his lips again. She put her arms around his neck and leaned back against the curved arm of the sofa so that her head rested there dizzily. He groaned as he followed her down, and his fingertips moved ever so lightly from thei
r resting place over her heartbeat to the soft curve of one small breast where the corset stays pushed it up against the silky cotton of her chemise. Through the chemise, through the soft, sheer wool of her dress, she felt those long fingers probing with a light touch, feeling their way toward the center, and even before he touched the nipple, already engorged with shocked excitement and anticipation, a rush of heat enveloped her, centering in the pit of her stomach like a small, hot fire that radiated outward to the very tips of her fingers and toes.
Kristin went faint with terrified rapture, dimly aware of the hard pressure of his body on hers. Her mind was reeling.
Then, from a million miles away, she heard her father's booming voice. “In the library, you say?"
Chapter Two
Her father roared at both of them, but Mr. Cameron seemed quite calm. Kristin, on the other hand, was so befuddled that she could not be sure whether Mr. Cameron had been on his feet and she lying against the arm of the sofa when her father came in or they had both been reclining on the sofa, Mr. Cameron's hand still—she went breathless with horror at the thought of what her father might have seen.
Heinrich Traube burst into a flood of German invective, none of which Kristin understood, although she had thought herself quite fluent. He might have been speaking a foreign language while she became more and more conscious of the room turning and tilting. In the doorway, other members of the family peered at her, Minna saying, “What's happened?” and her father shouting at Mr. Cameron, at least so Kristin thought. Sounds boomed and echoed peculiarly. Then her father loomed up, his angry red face pushing into hers. “Drunk,” he shouted. “Die Hure ist betrunken. Lottie!"
Elusive Lovers Page 2
